


Life and Death

by knlalla



Series: Life and Death [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Non-graphic descriptions of death, Phan - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, death!dan, fluff?, life!phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12902217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: "The worst part, of course, is my counterpart. Complement. Opposite. Life. He is...something else. Light, happiness, and beloved. By everyone. He’s been revered since the beginning - I was jealous for ages, and I won’t lie, I threw...more than a few tantrums just to spite him. But it never mattered, he’s still always the favorite, always inspiring, always creating where I only destroy." (Dan POV)Or the one where Dan is Death, Phil is Life, and Phil starts following Dan around.





	Life and Death

 

Look, okay, I don’t  _ hate _ my job. Somebody has to do it, and I’ve been doing it since the beginning of time, so I may as well keep at it. It can just get...a bit exhausting. Especially after this many millenia. There was a pretty cool period of time where I was actually  _ worshipped  _ as Death, but now most people either hate me - the concept of me, I guess - or are absolutely terrified.

 

I’m not a bad guy, mostly, but if nobody ever died, the world would have a lot more issues. And I don’t make  _ all  _ the decisions - that would basically be impossible, even for an immortal being, to be there every time a person dies - but I still get all the negativity. Which does  _ wonders  _ for my self-esteem.

 

The worst part, of course, is my counterpart. Complement. Opposite.  _ Life _ . He is...something else. Light, happiness, and beloved. By  _ everyone _ . He’s been revered since the beginning - I was jealous for ages, and I won’t lie, I threw...more than a few tantrums just to spite him. But it never mattered, he’s still always the favorite, always inspiring, always creating where I only destroy. 

 

I’ve given up that petty hate; it’s long since devolved into a depressing apathy. I do my job, I make some decisions, I am despised, and - above all else - I avoid hospitals. They’re the one place I’m most likely to see him. 

 

But, as it happens, the universe has demanded that I’m in one right now, and I wander the sterile halls silently. Nobody looks at me, their eyes naturally averting from my presence, and it only takes me a few moments for the tug in my chest to drag me to the ER. I place my hand on the door and take a deep breath.  _ This never gets easier. Millions of years, and it never gets easier. _

 

I slip inside the room, eyeing the mother and her unborn child; in a few moments, they’ll both pass. I cross the space, reaching a hand out to the woman. I can feel the intensity of her pain, but she’s desperately clinging to life regardless.  _ They always do. They always fear me. _ My hand is only an inch from hers when an unexpected warmth blossoms on my shoulder.

 

I freeze, then turn slowly toward the source. A pale hand rests there, and I inhale sharply when I realize who it’s connected to. I pull back from the woman, meeting Life’s bright blue eyes with my own -  _ I wonder if mine look as dead as his look alive. _

 

“What?” I grind the word out, aiming for annoyance and ending up with something more like malice. But  _ of course _ he’s entirely unfazed, and even has the audacity to smile at me. I shrug my shoulder, and his arm falls to his side.

 

“Please, just wait a few moments,” he’s smiling, but it’s softened into something a little solemn, and I crinkle my brow. Not only has he  _ never _ , in our  _ entire existence _ , spoken to me, but he has  _ certainly  _ never requested anything. Not for a life to be spared, though he is the very embodiment of it.

 

“And why on earth should I?” I ask indignantly, even crossing my arms.  _ Okay, I get that I’m being a petulant little child, but what right does he have to come and ask me for a favor, ask me not to do my job? _ Instead of responding, he points to the woman. I sigh and follow his gaze, watching the child’s future evolve before me: they’re someone impactful, and I shake my head.  _ I can’t believe I’m doing this. _

 

“Fine, just long enough for the child to survive.” I agree. He smiles brightly, and I expect him to disappear, but he doesn’t - he’s leaning against the wall by the door, far from me, though I can swear I still feel warmth radiating from him.  _ I know how to do my job, and I said I’d let the kid live, don’t you trust me? _ The moment I have the thought, I roll my eyes.  _ Of course not, why would he? I’m everything he isn’t, everything bad and awful and malevolent. _

 

Several minutes pass, and the child is born. I approach the woman; she’s now accepting of my touch. I almost expect another hand on my shoulder, from Life, but he remains in his corner and her eyes drift shut. When I leave, uncomfortable with being so close to my polar opposite, he trails behind me as I make my way down the corridor.

 

“Why are you following me,” I deadpan, and he breaks into a light jog to catch up. I’ve been speed-walking to get away.

 

“Because you still have a question, don’t you want me to answer it?” His tone isn’t taunting, but I wish it were.  _ Of course it isn’t, he’s too  _ good _ to goad you. You’re the only one who’d do that. _

 

“Fine, yes, I am  _ insatiably _ curious, please grace me with your wisdom,” I stop and bow toward him dramatically. And he actually  _ laughs _ at me. I stand, crossing my arms again. The embarrassed blush that creeps to my face pisses me off even more.  _ Probably just from that stupid warmth he keeps sending out _ . “Why that one? I’ve taken a hundred  _ billion _ lives and you’ve never said a word. What’s so special about that one?” Honestly, though, I want to know the answer, and I hope he’s not just messing with me.  _ Nope, he’s too good for that. _

 

“It was important,” he responds in the most  _ vague _ way possible, and I actually throw my hands in the air. 

 

“Well, thanks, captain obvious, glad we got that out of the way. Why  _ that specific person _ ? Are they so much more important than all the others I’ve taken?” I’m kind of shouting, and eyes are locking on the two of us from every direction. I am  _ definitely _ not used to this level of attention; it takes me a few seconds to realize that nobody’s actually looking at  _ me _ . They’re focused on  _ him _ .  _ Of course they are. I’m nothing worth looking at, but he shines like the sun.  _

 

I stomp away in a huff, desperate for air. It’s blisteringly cold outside, and the hibernating world of winter has always given me comfort. 

 

And  _ of course _ he follows me out. I settle myself on a bench near a collection of dead plants, rolling my eyes as he sits down beside me. 

 

“First of all, you’re  _ uncomfortably  _ close - how often do you actually interact with humanity? Ever heard of personal space?” I spit the words at him, but he just smirks and shifts away. “And  _ second _ of all, can you maybe tone down the life thing? You’re kind of killing the vibe…” I trail off, gesturing to the sprouts of green shooting through the grayish piles of snow. He mumbles something under his breath and chuckles, and I glare at him.

 

“What?” He looks a little guilty, and it only spurs me on.  _ Not so nice, now, are we? _ “Tell me what you said, or I’ll go back in there  _ right now _ and finish my job.” It’s an empty threat, but I refuse to admit that letting the child live was a good decision. Not when he was the one to request it.

 

“I said  _ I’m _ not the one killing anything,” his voice is low and soft, and a small smile tugs at his cheeks. I think my jaw actually drops, and I can’t tell if it’s shock from the  _ joke _ he just told or indignation at the fact that he just joked  _ about me _ . He laughs now, more fully, and some of the sprouts that have grown are now blossoming into tiny white flowers.

 

“Stop that! Why are you even here?” I stand, searching for anything normal, anything comfortable, anything that  _ isn’t him _ . I find myself actually  _ hoping _ for the tug in my chest that will lead me to the next decision I need to make, the next life I need to take.  _ At least I understand that. _

 

He doesn’t respond, so I pick a direction and start walking. Crowds flow around me without looking, and it’s...not better, but it’s something. It’s familiar. I don’t stop until I’ve found another bench - no plant beds around, no sleeping trees, nothing he can affect if he follows me. Which he does.

 

I watch him approach out of the corner of my eye - it’s like watching actual happiness in human form. Couples kiss as he passes, children jump and smile and tug at their parents’ hands, even the solitary businessmen smile into their coffees and drop spare change in beggars’ cups.  _ He is everything good, and I am everything else. _ I drop my eyes to the concrete at my feet.

 

He sits next to me silently, a little farther away than before. I wait for him to speak, to explain, but he doesn’t. Just sits. I look up - not to meet his gaze, but to stare ahead of me. To people-watch. If I wanted, I could do the same thing I’d done with the child at the hospital - see entire lives unfold before me - but sometimes it’s better to just get lost in the present. 

 

I’m usually...okay, perhaps not  _ patient _ , but certainly  _ stubborn _ enough to hold out against an opponent, but my curiosity overwhelms me. It’s dark now, and he’s hasn’t said a word since we sat down.

 

“ _ Why are you here? Why won’t you leave me alone? _ ” I whisper-shout, finally turning and facing him; he’s just leaned back casually with a contented smile on his face. His fucking  _ eyes _ are even closed, like he’s just been asleep for the past few hours. I’m tempted to poke him, in case he is sleeping. Or punch him, not sure which.  _ Though I’m leaning toward the punch _ .

 

“As I said, this is important.” His eyes don’t open and his tone is exceptionally calm; it only fuels my frustration.

 

“Could you  _ be _ a little more vague, please? I let the kid live, I’m not going back just to spite you, alright? I’m done with that shit, it isn’t worth my time.”  _ And those were some of my biggest mistakes.  _ I don’t say that part aloud, instead crossing my arms with a huff. He chuckles again, and I can feel the warmth that pulses from him as he speaks.

 

“Death, you are-” I cut him off immediately, holding up a hand.

 

“ _ Please _ . Don’t.” I clench my jaw.  _ It’s one thing to hear it from humans who don’t know me, but to have the being paralleling my existence address me as ‘Death’… _ “If you have to call me something, call me Dan.” I amend quietly. 

 

“Of course,” his tone is completely serious, no longer light and joking like it was earlier. “In that case, please call me Phil,” I nod, though I’m not sure when I’ll ever need to address him. Or  _ why he’s even still here _ . I drop my head into my hands.

 

“Right, can you  _ please _ just tell me what you’re doing here?” I ask, exhaustion at the entire situation wearing me out.

 

“Helping.” He answers with a shrug, which I catch from the corner of my eye, and I almost scream.  _ That would definitely draw attention _ . Instead, I take a very deep, steadying breath, and lift my head.

 

“Okay, fine. ‘Helping’,” I toss up the air quotes. “And how exactly are you meant to be ‘helping’?” I turn toward him, hoping a different line of questioning will get me a clearer answer.

 

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” He smiles wide at me, and I can only blink in response.  _ He’s impossible.  _ I’m suddenly thanking every star in the sky that this is the first time I’ve ever had a conversation with him. Then I’m doing my best to find an excuse, a reason to walk away. A reason for him to leave. 

 

I come up hopelessly short.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, stuff to do? Life to create, and all that?” I ask with a wave of my hand, leaning back against the bench. At which point, I realize I’ve set myself up for a snarky comeback - ‘ _ don’t  _ you  _ have somewhere to be, lives to end, and all that?’ _ . But he probably wouldn’t say that.  _ Just me. _

 

“Life creates itself without me, just like death manifests without you.” He doesn’t move, and I exhale slowly, watching the cloud of my breath dissipate before I continue.

 

“Are you going to just keep following me?” If he won’t tell me  _ why _ he’s here, maybe he’ll at least explain what he’s doing, what I can expect. He doesn’t respond, so I glance over to find him nodding. “Great,” it takes a force of willpower I didn’t know I possessed to stop myself from asking him, once again,  _ why _ . “Well, I’m going back to my flat.” I stand, and he does the same, trailing behind as I begin my trek through the dark streets.

 

I stop after a few blocks of walking in complete silence - he’s still several steps behind me, and it’s starting to feel awkward. Well,  _ more _ awkward than this whole situation is to begin with.

 

“Okay, the following thing is a little stalker-level creepy. At least walk  _ next to _ me.” I don’t turn toward him as he catches up, but he must be smiling, because I feel a small wave of warmth wash over me and I shiver a little. I’m used to the constant chill - even the summer heat doesn’t affect me - and the feeling is unexpected.

 

“Cold?” He asks. I don’t answer, but another warm breeze kisses my skin anyway. I’m surprised at how pleasant it feels. We continue on for a while, both silent now, and I don’t realize I’ve drifted closer to him -  _ to the warmth, not to him _ \- until our shoulders brush. My next step takes me farther away, and I’m saved from having to acknowledge the moment when I realize my building is ahead.

 

“That’s me,” I point, quickening my pace, and he follows. I unlock the door and step inside, jumping when I hear a slam; I spin around to see Phil’s not behind me. “What…” I pull the door open again to find him sat on the concrete stairs. “What are you doing?” I’m beyond confused now. _ Is he following me or not? _

 

“You don’t want me to follow you, so I’m waiting out here.” He says, like it’s some well-known fact. He’s leaning back against the railing, black hair stuck up at odd angles from the wind and metal bars.

 

“Well, no, I don’t, but you can’t just...sit outside all night.” I don’t really have a fantastic reason  _ why _ he can’t just sit out all night - surely, if the summer heat doesn’t affect me, the winter chill won’t affect him - but it seems... _ wrong _ to just leave him. I heave a sigh, then hold the door open. “Alright, come on.”

 

He smiles brilliantly at me, and I can’t tell if the wave of heat that rushes through me is an effect of his liveliness or something from within me.  _ He smiled because of me, because I did something...nice. _

 

I lead the way up to my flat, which is really a giant studio-like space with few furnishings - I’ve never been big on  _ things. _ Phil roams the area, stopping to look at almost everything. He finds his way to the kitchen and actually pulls out all my cups, mugs, and silverware, inspecting each in turn. 

 

“Okay, seriously, have you  _ never _ seen a fork before? A cup? A spoon? Hell, we’ve been around long enough.” He’s holding a fork up to the overhead light and staring as if he’s trying to memorize the way the tines cast shadows on the countertop. 

 

“Sure, they all look familiar, but not everything sticks,” he glances over at me, tapping the fork against his head with a grin and resuming his exploration.  _ It doesn’t stick? _

 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, somewhere between confused and concerned.  _ Not concerned for  _ him  _ \- we’re two of a kind, in a way, I just want to be sure nothing bad will happen to me. _ I follow behind him, hoping to get a straightforward answer.

 

“Exactly what I said. Things don’t stick,” I’m at my fucking  _ wit’s end _ with him, so I grab his arm and spin him around. 

 

“No, you need to explain this,  _ fully _ explain it, right now.” I infuse as much anger as I can, trying to drown out my fears.  _ Whatever it is, surely it doesn’t affect me as well? _

 

“Calm down,” he smiles at me, and I drop my hand. He paces over to the couch, still holding the fork, and gestures for me to join him. Several long moments pass after I’ve sat before he continues. “I’m creation, right?” He looks at me, as if actually asking for confirmation, so I nod. “So I’m in a constant state of being created and recreated. Not everything...stays up there.” He taps the fork against his head again, and I try to process what he’s said.  _ What, like amnesia? Or something else? _

 

“I can tell you’re worried,” he smiles, and the warmth hits me again. “It’s different for you,  _ you’re  _ different. Not a creator,” he adds, and I duck my head.  _ Would it be worth it, not sure what I might forget, if it meant I wasn’t a destroyer? _ I’m startled by a hand covering my own. “I’m sure you remember  _ everything _ ,” he adds reverently, and I feel a soft tap against my own head from the fork.

 

“Yeah,” I mumble, standing to find anywhere else to be, anything else to say. “So,” I clear my throat, “do you eat? Sleep?” I don’t need to, and I doubt he does either, but I like to. It fills time. In the kitchen, I’m trying to put everything back in the cupboard; I almost drop the glass I’m holding when he appears behind me.  _ Did he just...apparate? _ I shove my jealousy down.  _ Just...be nice. Maybe he’s just trying to get you to be nice, then he’ll leave. _

 

“Oh my god, do you have any cereal?” He asks the question like he’s talking about ice cream, and I stifle a laugh. 

 

“Yeah, take your pick,” I offer, opening the pantry. He pulls out each of the boxes in turn, finally settling on Crunchy Nut, and walks over to plop himself down on the couch. I blink a few times as he opens the box and sticks his hand in, pulling the dry cereal out and eating it by the handful.  _ What the ever-loving fuck is going on? _

 

I drag my hand down my face in exasperation, but I can’t manage to be fully annoyed. He looks a little like a lost puppy, and  _ really _ happy. To be shoving cereal in his face, but still. It’s not often that I actually make anyone  _ happy _ . 

 

“If you, uh, want to sleep, you’re welcome to take the couch,” I offer; he smiles at me and mumbles a ‘thanks’ before returning his focus to the box in front of him. I blink a few times, amused, then wander over to the bed. Sleep has always been a convenient way to escape for a while. Existence, sometimes, is hard to deal with. 

 

I’ve switched all the lights off and been laying under the covers for almost an hour, though, and sleep won’t come. I want to blame the faint glow coming from the couch, but it’s more the  _ source _ of the glow that’s keeping me up.  _ Does he really have so little control that he can’t turn himself off? _ The warmth and plants are one thing, but this is actually impeding my sleep. The glow, not my wandering thoughts about the enigma of a person who’s causing it.

 

“Phil?” I call into the darkness, but don’t get a response.  _ Jesus christ... _ I pull the covers off and stalk over to the couch. Phil’s fallen asleep  _ with my fucking Crunchy Nut still in his hand _ . I reach over, planning to jerk it away and wake him up, but he hums slightly and smiles. Groaning, I gently tug on the box until he lets go, curling his arm up by his head.  _ Of course. Not only is he the favorite, but he’s cute, too. _

 

I try to pretend that thought didn’t happen, shuffling to the kitchen by his glow and replacing the half-empty box in the pantry.  _ So he’s cute, so what? Objectively, he’s attractive. That doesn’t mean anything, certainly doesn’t mean I’m attracted  _ to _ him. _ As I burrow back under my duvet, I dig into my hatred and jealousy for the man sleeping on my couch, letting it paint over any kindness I felt.  _ Besides, he probably hates me, too. I destroy everything he creates, eventually _ .

 

I sleep more fitfully than usual, my dreams offering no escape from my strange predicament and - if possible - making the whole situation a hundred times worse: every nightmare of insecurity, of jealousy, of the mistakes I’d made in the past makes a resurgence, broken up by fantasies of the man I can currently hear crunching on  _ more _ of my cereal.

 

“Phil, are you eating my cereal  _ again _ ?” I half-shout across the space. A shock of black fringe pokes out from the kitchen, followed by an extremely wide smile. Close-mouthed. 

 

“Sorry, I just got hungry!” He announces around the mouthful he’s chewing. I roll my eyes and fall back onto my pillow. And leap out of it immediately when I feel the familiar tug in my chest. It’s strong, which means someone nearby and  _ soon _ , and I throw on a pair of jeans and a jumper before rushing to the door. 

 

“I’ll, uh, be back later. Got something to take care of,” I feel awkward saying it, like he should be mad at me just for doing my job.  _ Everyone else is, and he has more right than any of them _ . 

 

“Don’t you mean some _ one _ ?” My hand freezes on the doorknob, but there’s no anger in his voice. In fact...I spin around to find him grinning at me.  _ Did he just make another joke? _ “I’m coming with you, obviously,” he announces, setting the empty box of cereal aside -  _ he can’t be serious, about the cereal or about following me... _

 

“You don’t…” I try, but he’s already standing uncomfortably close, gesturing at me to open the door. I sigh, and we make our way toward the tug.  _ Maybe if he sees me do this, he’ll be as disgusted as most people are and just leave me alone. _

 

The thought squirms in my stomach uncomfortably. 

 

I try to offer him an out - more for myself than for him - when we arrive, but he declines; he’s currently leaning against the wall like he was in the hospital. The man on the floor had a heart attack; he’s older, had a pretty good life from what I can tell, but he resists me all the same. I falter as he whispers the words of that famous poem.

 

“ _ Do not go gentle into that good night, _ ” I know he can see me, he knows what I am - they usually do - and he’s fighting back. The warm presence of Phil in the corner makes me hesitate -  _ I don’t want him to watch me destroy what he’s created _ . A burst of bitterness, of jealousy, runs through me at the thought and it spurs me on;  _ this is it, this is what I am. I am all things horrible, look at me and hate me like everyone else _ . I touch the man’s withered hand, and his eyes flutter closed. I don’t look at Phil when we leave.

 

He doesn’t speak as we walk back to the flat, but he hasn’t been very talkative up to this point. I stay a step ahead of him, wallowing in my little pity party.  _ He could never see me as anything other than a destroyer, my dreams meant nothing, they can’t mean anything because it’s stupid of me to even think that way. _ The thoughts and silence continue well after we’re back in the flat, after I’ve spent hours distracting myself via the internet, and I try not to acknowledge Phil at all.

 

Until I hear a soft sound I can’t identify. I glance over as nonchalantly as possible - he’s sat on the couch with a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and a blanket draped over his shoulders.  _ Is he...cold? Surely not, though the blanket and coffee won’t help… _

 

“Are you…” I leave the question hanging as he glances over, offering me a thin smile. 

 

“You’re in quite a mood, to make the entire flat colder than it is outside,” I exhale, about to ask what on  _ earth _ he’s on about, but the cloud that escapes my lips answers my question for me. 

 

“Oh, jesus, sorry,” I take a few breaths and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to dissipate the anger and bitterness I’d let consume me for the past few hours. Unaffected by my own chill, I’ve never had to regulate my mood before, and focusing on the thoughts only seems to make things worse. My eyes fly open when a warm hand takes my own, and Phil’s leading me to the couch. “What…” I ask, but he shushes me, and we sit down.

 

“What makes you happy?” He asks it so casually, and I’m embarrassed to find I don’t have an answer. “Take your time, just picture it in your head,” he adds, and I close my eyes, searching for something -  _ anything _ \- that makes me happy. Frustrated, I quickly give up; I return my focus to the cold, trying to make it go away, when I feel Phil’s hand again.

 

He doesn’t speak, just holds my hand, so I keep my eyes shut. I’d be lying if I said my breathing was steady, and I hope he doesn’t notice the erratic puffs of steam that are surely escaping my mouth right now.  _ This is exactly what you were supposed to forget from last night _ , my brain chides me, but - much like the negativity I’ve been concentrating on all day - trying to forget only brings every moment of those dreams to the forefront of my mind. 

 

After a few moments of silence, of Phil’s hand in mine, of trying not to relive those fantasies and failing miserably, he pulls out of my grasp. It takes more effort than I care to admit to stop myself from reaching for him.

 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I open my eyes to see Phil sat across from me, smiling brightly. The atmosphere has warmed significantly, probably in part due to how  _ happy _ the man across from me looks. I try not to think about the role I played in the change of temperature. Or the role Phil played in my role. I stand, swallowing thickly. 

 

“What were you thinking about?” Phil’s voice behind me makes me jump, and I blink a few times.  _ How am I supposed to answer that? _

 

“Uhh…” I rack my brain. I literally couldn’t come up with  _ anything  _ that makes me happy aside from him, but I can’t very well  _ tell _ him that. Nor can I tell him exactly  _ what _ I was thinking about; some of those dreams got into dangerous territory.

 

It takes me a full ten seconds to realize that the feeling in my chest  _ isn’t _ the fear of explaining what happened in my head, but another person I need to take. It’s fainter than before, so I announce my plans to shower and head out.

 

“Okay!” Phil turns toward his newest fascination, the half-dead cactus I’ve had sat on my windowsill for the past couple weeks. I thought it’d be fun and easy to care for, but I keep forgetting about it. 

 

By the time I step out of the shower, the tug at my chest is more urgent, and I dress quickly. I don’t say a word to Phil, though he follows me out the door, and I hail a cab. This person is across town, a good half hour by car, and I don’t feel like walking. 

 

“Why don’t you just, y’know,  _ go _ there?” Phil whispers when we climb in the backseat. I try to ignore the shiver that crawls up my spine with his lips that close to my ear.  _ Fucking hell, I am  _ not _ attracted to him _ .

 

“Go?” I know he means  _ something _ by that, but it only hits me what exactly he’s referring to after I’ve already asked. “Oh, no, I can’t do that,” I shake my head, letting the bitterness creep in. “I can’t do  _ anything _ like that.” I let my breath steam up the window instead of facing Phil.

 

“Oh, well, that’s good.” My eyebrows raise, but I don’t turn. “It always makes me so dizzy, especially if I have to go far,” I turn to find him staring out the window now, and I drop my eyes to study my shoes. The rest of the ride passes in silence, until I ask the driver to drop us outside the park. It’s not where we need to go, but I have to do the rest of this by feeling, so it’ll have to do.

 

I’m looking through the doorway once we arrive at the small house.  _ It never gets easier _ . The little girl is laying in a hospital-issued bed in the family’s living room, and I can barely see the rise and fall of her chest. Again, I offer Phil the option to stay outside. Again, he declines.

 

Normally, I could steel myself enough to walk in, take her, and walk out. With Phil standing there, it feels impossible.  _ How do I take a child, someone you’ve created, someone with so much life ahead of her? _ The thought of him hating me sends a spear into my chest, and I step back.

 

“I...I don’t think...I can’t…” I stutter, eyes fixed on the girl. “How…” I turn toward Phil, and he’s watching me. Just watching.  _ How does he not hate me already? He knows why I’m here. _ I collapse to the ground, hands covering my face. I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself, trying to find the resolve I’ve been able to tap into  _ every single day _ until now. It never comes.

 

Instead, I feel a hand take mine, drag me from the ground and into the room. Phil’s leading me right toward the child, and I’m too dumbfounded to pull away. In moments, we’re standing beside the bed, and Phil’s hand is holding mine. The girl stirs slightly, and I wonder if it’s because of Phil’s presence.  _ Why is he… _

 

Her eyes open, and widen in fear when she sees me.  _ Why would he wake her, if he knows I’m struggling, if he knows she’ll be afraid? _

 

“Hello,” he smiles down at her, and she turns to him. And calms completely. “This is my friend, Dan, he’s going to take you somewhere really special. You don’t need to be scared, he’s really nice. Are you ready?” I’m mesmerized by his words, so much so that it barely registers when the girl smiles and nods. Then Phil raises our hands until mine is hovering just an inch above hers. I can’t move, but it turns out I don’t need to - she lifts her hand to meet mine, and her eyes flutter shut at the contact. She dies with a smile on her face. 

 

I can’t think, I can’t even  _ breathe _ properly, and I stumble away. 

 

“What...what did you do? Why?” I almost forget where we are, what’s going on, but Phil’s hand is still holding mine, and he leads me from the room before the family can recognize that I’m here. As we step through the front door, my ears pop and we’re suddenly standing less than a foot from my bed. I have exactly three seconds to notice this before my vision blacks out, and I collapse onto it.

 

I wake with a start, trying to remember where I am and how I got there - the ‘where’ comes quickly, the ‘how’ does not. I shift against my pillow, which -  _ ohshitohshitohshit that is  _ not _ my pillow _ . My head is resting on  _ Phil’s chest _ , and his arm is wrapped around me. I try to stay still so I don’t wake him when the reality of the situation hits me.  _ Whatever happened, I passed out, and  _ his  _ arms are wrapped around _ me. I bite my lip to prevent the giggle that threatens to escape.  _ This is what happiness feels like _ . The thought is as unbidden as the fantasies that caused it, but I don’t fight it this time.

 

Instead, I bury my head back into Phil’s chest and live inside this tiny happy world for a few minutes. I actually almost fall back asleep, but he shifts against me and I’m wide awake again.  _ Please don’t move, I’m happy, I like being happy _ . 

 

“Are you okay?” His voice breaks into my thoughts, and I try not to let out a disappointed sigh.

 

“Yeah, I’m alright,”  _ more than alright _ . I don’t say that part. Instead, I sit up, though I’m afraid to meet Phil’s gaze as the events from... _ was that yesterday? What time is it? _ I can’t figure it out, the sky is dark outside, but everything that happened before I passed out comes crashing back into my head like a tsunami. I stand abruptly.

 

A chill settles over my skin as I leave the warmth of Phil, of the bed, and I make my way into the kitchen. Food is another distraction. Food can’t hate me. 

 

“Are you sure?” Phil’s voice carries from the other side of the room, but I can’t look. How can I, when I can’t meet his eyes?  _ Why is he even talking to me? He watched me steal something precious from this world, something he created, a piece of him, and he’s still talking to me? _ My hands shake as I spread the butter on a half-burnt piece of toast. As I pour a cup of coffee. My eyes stay fixed on the countertop.

 

“I’m fine, really,” I think even my voice is shaking.  _ How could he even  _ touch _ me, knowing that same touch takes lives? _ I know I’m spiraling, but I can’t stop myself.  _ Why should I? I am destruction, I deserve this. _ The coffee is bitter, but I drink it anyway.

 

“You’re not,” his voice is soft in my ear, and I squeeze my eyes shut. The mug in my hand hits the countertop harder than I mean it to. I’m stuck between wanting to run and wanting to scream, but I do neither; I drop to the floor, right there in the kitchen, and lean my aching head against the cupboards.

 

“ _ Why don’t you hate me? _ ” The question feels like poison on my tongue, something painful and vicious. But I have to understand.  _ He just forgot, it didn’t stick, that has to be it. _ “You forgot, didn’t you?” I ask, looking up to where I think he’s standing, but I find him sitting next to me. I want to protest when he slides closer, shoulder touching mine. I don’t. 

 

“I didn’t forget,” he insists, but I shake my head.  _ He has to have forgotten, how could he be here, how could he not hate me, if he hadn’t forgotten everything I’ve done? Everything I do? _

 

“You don’t  _ understand, _ ” I lift a shaking hand and drag it through my hair as I take a breath. “Years of genocides, of mass killings, letting serial killers run free, taking the lives of the innocent, the helpless,” my voice drops to barely a whisper, “children, children with their whole lives ahead of them.” I let my eyes drift closed, though I can feel tears welling up. “This is what I do. I take  _ everything  _ from you, I destroy everything beautiful you’ve ever created. That is  _ all _ I do. All I  _ can _ do.  _ Why don’t you hate me? _ ” I wait in silence, expecting the warmth to fade, expecting him to get up and leave me. 

 

I almost pull away when a hand rests on my knee.

 

“I haven’t forgotten, but please don’t be upset,” his voice is low and quiet, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling down my cheeks, flowing freely now. “I don’t think  _ you _ understand,” he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his words.  _ He’s joking now? _ I don’t question it when the hand disappears -  _ right, leave me, leave me to my self-destruction. It’s all I’m good for _ . I do question it, though, when his arm wraps around me and pulls me close. 

 

“Life, the life I give, is beautiful not because it goes on, but because it is finite,” he continues, and the rumble of his chest against my ear is soothing. “I give them possibility, but you…” he trails off, and I wait for it, for the inevitable punch to my gut. “You give them  _ purpose _ .” My eyes fly open. “How could I ever be mad, ever  _ hate _ you, when you give my gifts such meaning?” 

 

He lifts my chin, and I stare at him through a blur. The waterworks haven’t stopped, but they’ve slowed, and I take a shaking breath when his thumb wipes a falling tear from my cheek. 

 

“Please don’t be sad,” his voice is a whisper now, and I’m hanging on every word. “Your existence is more beautiful than anything I could ever create. I hope I can make you see that.” My heart almost stops in my chest when I realize he’s leaning in, bright blue eyes watching me closely. His lips meet mine and I can’t move. I don’t want to.

 

_ This is happiness. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/168149449682/life-and-death)


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